The Girl
by Eruanna7979
Summary: A short story about what COULD have happened after Aragorn fell off the cliff after the battle. Do we realise what danger he could have been in, if say, perhaps, the wrong person could have found him? Please review!
1. Chapter 1

The girl looked up from the river bank as she heard a splash. It had come from somewhere upstream. Rinsing the rest of the herb-soap from her honey-blond hair, she quickly grabbed her clothes and ran to see what it was.

She grew quiet, taking slow, steady steps as she approached the sound. She walked around the base of the cliff; the water was shallow there. Suddenly, she saw a brown thing come towards her, flowing along with the strong current. Thinking it was only a log, she turned to go back to finish her bath. She held onto the cliff-rocks, as not to lose her balance. From the corner of her eye, she saw the log come closer, and she followed it with her eyes, until it had passed her. She had stopped walking now, and continued staring at the brown log, which, in fact, was not a log at all.

Alarmed, the girl looked up at the towering cliff. _'A warg!' _She thought, and looked back down at the dead beast now drifting far downstream. An ugly black warg-saddle was still cinched tightly to its' bleeding body, but no rider was to be found. She thought it odd, that the animal had simply run off the cliff above her!

The girl kept looking around, especially up to the cliff as she walked back to her campsite, more quickly than before. Still naked, she waded across the river with her bundle of clothes in one arm. She spread her now-soaked clothes on the muddy bank to let them dry, and she quickly packed her belongings. She didn't have much, just some food and cooking supplies, and she was soon ready. She dressed and started off downstream, walking stick in hand, knapsack over her shoulder, yet she was still cautious. If the Rohirrim were nearby, she knew she would be caught.


	2. Chapter 2

She continued down the river, following it closely, but still keeping out of sight. The warg carcass was gone, and she was alone. The sun was shining brightly above the looming wall, which gradually sloped nearer to the ground as she walked. After a couple of hours, the river left the face of the cliff and curved southwards, so she was now walking on an open plain. The girl now walked along the southern bank; the sand felt good on her aching feet. She was in good spirits for the most part, but that rotting animal always came back to her thoughts. She wondered how he had gotten in the river, or we he had fallen. She knew very well where it had come from, and it's origin, but she still pitied the poor creature.

The girl continued on for hours, never stopping to rest. She passed the warg carcass, lying on the bank; the flies buzzing around it, the maggots already starting to feed on its' flesh. She casually walked around it, after she had finished collecting his teeth and claws, so she could make a necklace later that night.

She knew all to well that she would have to cross the river soon. She kept putting it off. She _hated _to swim. Soon enough, she came to her crossing point. The river was more shallow, the current less strong. She walked into the water up to her knees and stopped. It was icy cold. She took a deep breath as she prepared her self to swim. He pack was tied to her back so she cold use her arms freely. Her walking stick she had abandoned.

Her feet sank into the mud as she continued. The water was now up to her chest, and with a great effort, she plunged forward into the river, and was immediately carried off by the current. She tried to swim to the other side, but the water was pulling her under, and the current was stronger than she thought. When she thought she was going to die anyway, she rolled onto her back and floated on downstream, inhaling as much air as her lungs would allow her. She coughed out as much water as she could, as the dark, cold water took her down. She didn't know how long she had floated for, but as she opened her eyes she saw the northern edge of the river, getting closer to her. Suddenly, she felt wet sand scrape against her head as she stopped. Her body turned, wanting to follow the current, but her head was successfully embedded. She scrambled up onto shore with what strength she had left, and noticed a man that lay in a more critical position than she. He was asleep and wet, and he had many injuries. She pulled her self up into a sitting position to look at the man more closely. His back was facing her, and he wore all black, or so it seemed, since he was soaked. His hands we blue, and as she pulled him over, she saw that his lips we purple. His brown locks were caked with mud and sand. She checked his pulse. He was still alive! The girl lay back down, coughing up more water from her near-frozen lungs. She rolled over on the sand next to the man and fell unconcious.


	3. Chapter 3

When the girl awoke again, she was in the same spot, and quickly turned over to face the man. He was still there, in the same position she had left him in. She realized that she had slept through the night, and it was now the next morning. Her clothes were still damp, but his were dry, and the blue color of his lips and fingers wasn't there anymore. She wearily got up and went through her knapsack. She pulled out some meat and started to thoughtfully chew it as she stared at the man. It had lost some of it's flavor, for it had been soaking wet, as was everything else she owned.

The man just lay there, and the girl just sat there, as if he were to wake up any moment. Her instincts told her not to be frightened of him, though she still wondered if he was on her side, and not one of her enemies. He carried a sword. It was long and still tucked neatly in its' sheath. He also carried an empty quiver at his back, but no bow. A dagger also was being forced into the sand by his weight.

The girl continued looking him over, inch by inch, but never touching him. He breathed uneasily, and she did not know what he would do if he awoke. Suddenly, he rolled on his back and started to mumble unintelligible words. Cautiously, the girl leaned in a little closer as to try to understand what he was saying. His body tensed as if something had struck him hard, and then he sighed and relaxed, shifting his body a little in the sand.

She sat back and drew her knees up to her chest, never taking her eyes off the man. She finished her meat and looked around her, as if someone was watching. Just plains, endless plains she saw, and she knew she would have to cross them soon, whether the man awoke or not.

As dark was approaching, she got up to gather wood for a fire. Once she had a descent one blazing, she peeled off her clothes and layed them down to dry. After she had eaten again, she lay down on the opposite side of the fire from the man, and propped her head up on her elbow so she was facing him. She didn't know why she kept looking at him. She just stared, and never thought about dressing his wounds or trying to force-feed him or warm him. '_Just best to let him die, I suppose,' _she thought.


	4. Chapter 4

She awoke from the sound of footsteps near her. No, they weren't _foot_steps. It was a horse. She quickly got up, and true enough, a dark brown gelding slowly made its' way towards her and the sleeping man beside her. The fire had gone out, and the grass was still white with the early morning frost. It was cold, and she wrapped her blanket closely about her as she watched the sullen horse slowly walk towards them. He wore a halter of leather, and a rope was still attached, as if he had broken free from somewhere or got loose. The girl suddenly grew worried at the thought of a camp being nearby. She thought it odd that a stray horse would come towards them. He was dirty and wet, but he seemed tame, from far away.

A thousand thought raced through her head, and the horse still came. She looked down at the man, at the river, the plains, the horse. Suddenly, frustrated from not getting any answers, she bent down and started shaking the unconscious man. She straddled him and took him by his shirt and pulled him up and thrust him back down, several times. After no response, she shouted, "_WAKE UP!" _She thrust him back down into the sand again.

The horse had stopped, and stared at her, as if dumbfounded. The stupid man still lay there, taking deep breaths. His fists clenched and unclenched, and his already shut eyes winced as if he were in pain. More blood oozed from the wound on his shoulder, mixed with a white liquid. He still did not wake. The girl kicked him in his side, none too gentle, and then began packing her things. She had been here to long. It was time to leave.


	5. Chapter 5

_--Flashback—_

The old crippled man slowly made his way to a table, after paying the innkeeper for a room for the night. He tore his old hood from his head as he sat down at an empty table in the back corner. There were not many people in the Common Room that night, but those who were there were sitting quietly, drinking ale or playing cards. They spoke in hushed voices, but did not seem to notice the man come in. All save one.

He was fiddling with an unlit candlestick on the table when she approached him. He scraped the wax off with his unclean fingernails, and lightly tapped it on the wooden surface. His gaze was intent upon the candle, and he did not see her come.

'Baléd,' she said quietly, standing close. He didn't seem to hear, so she spoke his name louder. 'Baléd!'

The old man looked up, setting scraped candlestick pack in its' place. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I am looking for someone. She is called Krita. Have you seen her?'

'Shut up you old fool,' she said. 'I _am _Krita!' She sat down across from him. 'I suppose you have forgotten your messages, too?' She said it with sarcasm.

'Oh, now, girl, you know I am an old man!' he said to her. 'Don't criticize me! I am not in the mood. Don't go a-talkin' bad about me, I have been through too much to get here.'

'Alright Baléd, I won't,' she said to him, more politely. She neatly folded her hands in her lap. 'What happened to your leg?'

Baléd grunted as she shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'It doesn't matter, but its' hurt bad. I don't think I can make the next errand. I can't ride nor walk, it hurts so!

Krita rolled her eyes, but she pitied the man. She was already packed and ready, anyway. She knew he would make up an excuse so he would have to travel again, even if it meant hurting himself. '_Old fool,_' she thought. 'Alright then, Baléd,' she said. 'I will go back, in your stead. But first, tell me news of the South, please?'

After Baléd and Krita had finished discussing plans and news, they both retired to their beds. Krita sighed, as she pulled the rough covers over her. She would leave, again, at dawn the next morning.

_--End of flashback—_

And so it had always been. Leaving, returning, traveling, and she hated it. She wanted to scream. But instead she scooped up her things and put them back in her knapsack. She then crept up behind the brush on the bank, waiting for the lone horse to come.


	6. Chapter 6

She didn't have to wait long. The horse was already close, it was just walking so slowly. She sat in hunched position, and shifted closer to the brush that was covering her. Her eyes she kept on the brown animal, still making his way right towards her, it seemed. Though she did not know it, but as she waited, the man behind her had awoken and opened his eyes, but he had not seen her. He fell back into an uneasy sleep.

The horse soon reached the bank, and as she slowly drew out her hand to grab the rope, she stopped, and the horse kept walking, towards the man that still lay on the ground. The animal didn't even notice her! She slowly rose and watched as the horse gently nudged the man's shoulder with its' nose. She was only a few feet away- if only she could grab it- she paused again. The man had moved. He slowly rolled onto his back and a soft whisper came from his lips, barely audible. '_Brego,'_ she thought he said. A soft smile spread over his face, and his eyes remained shut.

Krita froze. This horse _belonged _to the man? Of course. It only made sense. But the man was near-dead. It was _her _horse now.

She crept behind the horse, barely making a sound. She made her way towards his head, and the rope that was attached to his halter. Just as she did so, the horse dropped onto the ground, right next to the man. This was very strange behavior for a loose horse indeed.

She grabbed her things and ran back into the brush when she saw the man move. He was awake! She cursed herself for not being more careful; he still bore his weapons, but he was still very very weak. She did not know why she feared him so; she could kill him now, if she wished. But wasn't he supposed to die? Why wasn't he dead? This man must be strong indeed, if he had to endure battle wounds, and a fall into one of the coldest rivers in the region; not to mention no food nor water for two days.

Krita marveled at his strength has he turned himself to face the horse. A grimy hand reached up to grab the horses' short black mane. She wondered if he knew she was there. But still she sat, not three yards away from an easy source of transportation across the plains, and as far as she could tell, a very strong man.


	7. Chapter 7

She had decided to let him go, of course. She did not wish to interfere with this man's priorities or life. He had left on his gelding he called Brego about three hours ago. She certainly regretted it now, for her feet were already sore in her worn leather boots. Yet she continued on, moving ever eastward, and always thinking about the strange man who she had been with for the past two days. She laughed at how foolish he was, not even to see her tracks in the sand! But then she pitied him, and envied his strength all the same.

One day, while she was walking peacefully in the grass, she saw a figure standing amidst a clove of trees. As she came closer she saw it was a man, but he was sitting now, and three black horses grazed nearby.

She smiled as she drew nearer to him. He was picking the meat off of a freshly cooked chicken leg, piece by piece, and setting the bits onto a plate in his lap. She folded her arms across her chest.

'I never thought I would see you here, Baléd,' Krita said. Her smile broadened and he laughed.

'Well met, indeed, girl!' He stood up. 'I have been waiting for you.'

'Where did you cross my path? I left before you,' she asked him in a more serious manner. 'Your leg was hurt, was it not?' She cocked her head to one side.

'Oh, well, yes,' he said, grasping his leg and rubbing it tenderly. 'It was, and it still hurts bad, but I am better now. They gave me three horses, you see, cause They said I had to travel quickly to find you, and lookee! I did!'

'Yes, Baléd, you did,' Krita said, sitting down next to the plate. She began helping herself to some of the meat that had not been burned. 'But why?' she asked him, her mouth half full.

'Grave news,' he said, sitting down beside her. His voice sunk into a whisper, as if someone could be listening nearby. He nervously rubbed his hands together back and forth.

'Come,' she said leisurely. 'tell me of this news.'

'Well,' he said, 'They said to me that there have been—bad, well, traitors that try to follow Him, _unloyal_ is what They said, yea. And, well, They've caught some of 'em—spies they are! and they did brutal things to 'em, what I heard.'

Krita sat back, seeming to be relieved. 'Well? They got what they deserved, I suppose. Nobody loves spies.'

'Now wait a minute!' said Baléd. 'That's not it, now, let me finish!' His voice sank back into a whisper. 'Well, They say He doesn't trust us anymore, not one of us, can you believe that! Not one except for Them! So They says that He says that we have to sware an oath to Him, to prove ourselves trustworthy! Now I laughed at the idea first, because who could be more trustworthy than _me?_ Ha ha!' He continued laughing, and throwing his head back, he leaned down on the grass.

Krita sat still, and listened intently, not making a sound. She waited for her friend to stop laughing.

'So now They're carving us, yea,' he continued. 'They will carve us and hurt us and draw our blood, and we say an Oath to honor Him! And They say they _kill_ anyone, and I mean _anyone_ recognized as one of His followers who don't wear his mark!' He suddenly lifted his white shirt sleeve to reveal a fresh wound, still crusted with blood, but as Krita looked closer she saw the darkest lines: there was a circle, and a gash was cut in the middle. It was The Eye. His Eye.


	8. Chapter 8

'Ah!' Krita gasped. 'Not too deep!'

'But it _has_ to be this deep, I know it!' answered Baléd, grasping her left arm with his, and holding a knife in his right.

'Hold still!' he barked, as she tried to break her arm free of his strong grip.

She tried desperately to think of other things as her friend made the symbol in her arm. She sat as still as she could, but couldn't help but pull away when he traced the fresh cuts again and again with his knife, making them ever deeper. '_For Sauron, for Sauron,'_ she kept saying to herself, sometimes mumbling it out loud. _'For our Lord, our Great Lord, this is for you.' _She saw her room again, her room in the Dark Tower, and remembered how hard she had worked to earn it, in a place of such greatness and might. She dreamed for a moment that she was head of the Army, leading thousands of the strongest Orcs out of Mordor, while sitting upon a great black horse in the finest armor. She dreamed of her Lords' delight when the heir of Gondor was brought to the dark city, bound in chains, never to become King in that dreaded White City. She saw his tattered garments and how fine they must have been before he was tortured and beaten. All of his people must have praised him for who he was to become, and he took advantage of the attention every time he was able to. Though Baléd still made the last brutal cuts in her arm, she almost smiled when she saw the half-dead man in her head, and she would laugh at his surety of becoming King as he was dragged into Mordor.

'Done!' he said, lifting his bloodied knife and releasing her arm quickly. She pulled it away and tucked it to her stomach. When she lifted it, she saw the Eye, and blood was still oozing from the cuts, and it looked as if it were crying. She stared at it for some time, then tore some cloth from Baléd's hands and wrapped it. She gave him a hateful look as she stood up and left to wash the blood from her.

She cried out as the cold water ran over her arm, and dabbed at the wound with her shirt. When most of the blood was off, she wrapped it again and solemnly walked back to camp.

Baléd was unsuccessfully cooking (or rather burning) a rabbit on a spit when she returned. She snatched his utensils from him and took his place. He stood up, and looked down at her pitifully, his arms hanging loose at his sides. She ignored his stare, and turned the rabbit slowly above the fire. 'So young; too young, at that. She shouldn't have had to endure that,' he said to himself. She relaxed when he finally walked away, not catching his words.

He walked over to where his pack lay and started to toss random items in it, including some of Krita's own possessions. She sat, staring at the fire, but not really seeing it. She stared deep into the hottest embers, glowing orange and then red again; it took her a few moments to comprehend him when he told her that they would leave again in the morning.


	9. Chapter 9

'_You_ didn't get much sleep last night,' Baléd accused. He looked sharply at the girl whose back was facing him. She leaned over and casually threw more items into her pack. When she didn't answer him, he asked: 'What was you dreamin' about, anyway? I saws ye, I did, tossin' and turnin' in yer sleep. Moanin' about some boy, maybe? Ha!'

Krita quickly passed him, trying to avoid the conversation. She went to the remains of the fire and started spreading the ashes around in the grass, seeming to hide the traces, though Baléd remarked that she wasn't doing a very good job of it. Soon her hands were pitch black. She worked furiously, casting the ashes here and there, one handful landing on her friends' boot.

'Let me help you there, girl, what are ye doin'?' He moved in next to her and tried to hold her arm still, but she backed away as if she had been stung by an ugly insect. She stood there, staring at him, a blazing fire in her eyes, and then they turned cold as ice. 'Don't play games with me, Baléd,' she told him softly, though he could sense the anger in her voice. Before he could reply, she turned and went down the bank to the river.

'Oh, _now_ what have I done?' Baléd said aloud. He grabbed a half burned log from the pile and pitched it at one of the horses. The log missed by a yard and the horse continued to graze.

Krita had used all her strength not to cry in front of Baléd. When she reached the River, she collapsed in the sand, and burying her head in her hands, she let out what she had kept bottled up inside of her. She hated who she was, and she hated Baléd, and she hated all the world. She hated what she had indeed dreamt and was trying to forget, but most of all, she hated those damned Rangers for killing her love, whom had so recently entered her thoughts again.

Baléd once asked her where she came from, who her parents were, and why she wandered alone. But every time he did, she gave him a look that always made him wonder if she was really human. He knew she was, of course, but all the same, why was a girl like that working for a Lord like Him? He wanted to read her thoughts, delve into her mind to find what keeps her ticking. He knew he would never know, because she would never tell him; but he couldn't help but wonder if maybe she had just been tossed to Middle-earth like a sac of potatoes, bearing no history or family, save her name.

But despite all of Baléd's silly thoughts, Krita did indeed have a history, and in fact a home town. It was called Poros, a small village in Harondor, or South Gondor, located on the shores of the Poros River for which it was named. The few hundred people that dwelled there were allies of no one, though both Gondor and Mordor were its' neighbors. There was only one Inn, and dwarves often passed through to rest a night or two. Elven eyes had never been laid upon the town, and in fact the whole existence of Elves was but a rumor there; with mothers telling their children tales of the pointy-eared people by the fireside, or before bedtime. The very few adventure-seeking boys were never seen again if they chose to leave; most of them finding more interesting countries, or becoming warriors for different Lords of foreign lands. But because they never returned, many of the villagers became afraid of the outside world, so they stayed in Poros, never wandering more than a few miles away to gather simple herbs for meals. They trusted not the dwarves that passed by, but were even more afraid of the Rangers that watched in the shadows on the Northern bank of the River in Ithilien.

But because it was such a small town, each person knew every person, and festivals and parties were frequent. They worshipped no god, and had no leader or mayor. They were simple people, and girls married whom they wished, and men ran the households, and there were many children.

Krita's own mother died in child labor with her brother Talís, leaving their father to care for them through childhood. He was the town's only blacksmith, and was a good, strong man who loved his children, and most of all he loved teaching Talís about his work. But when Krita was twelve and Talís was nine, he left Poros to go hunting, and he never returned. It was about this time, after their father disappeared, that Krita would meet Rûmik, and he would change her life forever.


	10. AN

Wow—It has been too long since I updated this last…but another interesting thing is that I have like 10 stories on my Alerts and since I have stopped writing nobody seems to be updating either, so maybe this is the time of the year where all fanfic freak writers are lazy and have no inspiration, like me! So I will continue to put off updating the last chapter until I feel like writing, or get an inspiration. God, I hope it happens soon. I actually want to finish this story.


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